OMG FUCK OFF 2018. Although I will admit that toward the end, because of midterms, you managed to somewhat elevate yourself and release us from the grip of the Human Centipede: Let’s Make a Circle variety show that was 2018, there is still much work to do, and I am so ready to move on from you. So ready.

As some of you may remember, my original blog, That Shameless Hussy, was a nod to Shameless Hussy Press, the first press to publish exclusively female writers in an industry that ignored them.

I chose it three years ago because I thought it was a cleverish name with good origins. Right before Nanopoblano, I closed it and tried something new, for reasons that stopped making sense right after I did it. Partly because the novelty of being found under some really disturbing search terms wore off long ago (I see you, you sick bastard), and partly because I thought a new blog would give me a little creativity boost. I tried to buy my name as a domain and someone already owns it. So I chose something I didn’t like that was close. And then Zuckerberg, et al wouldn’t allow me to change my page name because I might be Russian or whatever. And right now I’m thinking I should just give up switch it back. So I might. Try not to be shocked. Or notice.

I’m fairly certain the blog name isn’t the real problem here.

Oh, shut up.

Someone who spends as much time second-guessing herself as I do doesn’t do well in a climate that parasitically thrives on hypervigilant introspection. I already overthink, so giving me concrete cause to doubt everything I thought I understood doesn’t end well for me. In fact, it doesn’t end at all. Also, I internalize everything.

Complete stranger, to another complete stranger, as overheard by me: “I hate it when this very specific type of person walks up and does this very specific, very thoughtless/offensive/sociopathic thing.”

Me: OMG. I am a person. I am a person who walks. Sometimes, I walk up. I did something thoughtless once that was vaguely similar to what this person mentioned but was under completely different circumstances, and I did it thirty years ago. Clearly she is talking about me and I am the worst person ever. I’d better ruminate on this for a day or 7,000.

It’s funny how clear and profound these thoughts are when I’m supposed to be making pie or getting those stupid pecan chips to stick to my cheese balls, and then I get in front of a computer and suddenly I’m all ♪♫ I WANT A HIPPOPOTAMUS FOR CHRISTMAS ♪♫….ONLY A HIPPOTAMUS WILL DO……. ♪♫

Did no one explain to her how mean hippopotamuses are? Maybe she knew. Maybe she really hated her family. Maybe her brother had an alligator who needed a good ass kicking.


It’s a new year.

By January 3rd, I should have a new office. One that is not in the basement next to an X box and a litter box, shared with a teenage boy and three cats. I am very excited to have my own space. I’m thinking of having a murphy door on the closet so I can hide in there with a mini-fridge.

But I do have other goals. I’m going to have a big whiteboard on one wall and I’m going to write my goals up there, probably in different colored markers and everything. They involve appearing in specific publications, five who shall remain nameless because I don’t want them to have any warning, I want to be a contributor in three anthologies, also who shall remain nameless because I don’t know who they are yet. And I need to put together a solid one-minute stand up routine.

One post here per month, just to keep the routine.  So I’m set for January now. Whew.

That sounds like a pretty ambitious start, for someone who didn’t do much of anything last year besides get mad and yell at her newsfeed and be grateful she has good insulation. We will revisit those at the six month mark, see how we are doing.

Aren’t you glad you stopped in here to read this?


No one asked you.

It’s been a long December, but there’s reason to believe maybe this year will be better than the last. Also, When everybody loves you, you can never be lonely. Mr. Jones. I want a hippopotamus for Christmas.